Tomorrow Belongs to Me
by Magenta Ann
Summary: A Cabaret Fic: The rise of the Nazis to power as experienced by the emcee's Jewish stage manager and assistant, Fritzi Klein. Slightly AU. Emcee x OC.


**Disclaimer: I don't own Cabaret, Emcee, or even Helga. I only own Fritzi. This is my first ever fan fiction, so be kind. Also, I'm looking for beta readers. Message me if you would happen to be interested. Also, my knowledge of Nazi Germany isn't perfect. If anyone here is a WWII buff or something of the sort, I would love to have input and advice for keeping this nice and authentic. Thanks! :)**

Frauline Klein rasped orders at the giggling dancers, all the time smiling cheerfully. No matter the pathetic state of her life; as the emcee said each and every night, 'In here, life is beautiful.' The beauty of the cabaret was not in fine wines and marble statues and plush-lined lounges, but in smoke and drag queens and ex-prostitutes. The performers were of a deplorable class- addicts, unreliable drunkards, and the very best friends that the impoverished stage manager could ever hope for. They never rolled their eyes at her quick temper, or laughed at her for looking like a Jew.

Jew. Fritzi Klein wasn't sure just when that had become a dirty word, but golden haired Nazis swarmed the Kit Kat Klub daily, and most Jews hid their heritage nervously. The heavy Star of David that hung from a chain at her breast seemed heavier every day. She'd been warned to never show it, not in Berlin, not during such times, but true to her nature, she rejected the advice of her family and flaunted the pendant. The Nazis would fall from grace. Either way, Fritzi was no Jew. The necklace was but a good luck charm, an heirloom passed down to her from her beloved grandmother, and no newly-formed political party of elitists would take it from her. The Nazis were intimidating, but weak. For the time being, they were merely irritants.

Across the filthy dressing room, the emcee painted his soft lips red. Fritzi's eyes met his, reflecting back at her from the cracked mirror. She kicked away a mouse and crossed to him, massaging his tired shoulders.

"Ready, Schatzi?" Her deep, hoarse voice stood out amongst the high pitched clamor of the cabaret's single dressing room. No one knew the emcee's name, or even if he had one, but Fritzi was content to refer to her boss by the same familiar terms of endearment that she used for the dancers.

Boyish glee lit up his hungry brown eyes. "Ja."

He was a performer, through and through. His very being was an act, and the spotlight bathed his gaunt features in a disarmingly angelic glow. The character of the emcee was known in all Berlin, but no one in all of Germany seemed to know the man. Fritzi, his stage manager and assistant, was the closest. She lived across the hall from him, in the seedy, crumbling apartment building. They only met outside of work when one or the other lacked heat or running water. Such nights ended in drunken, harmless flirtations, maybe a rough, sloppy kiss or two, and refrains of loud, lewd laughter. Even without the makeup, he was forever the emcee.

The clock ticked now toward midnight, and the Kit Kat Klub was full to bursting. The emcee rose from his chair, allowing Fritzi to smooth back his black hair and shamelessly adjust the suspenders fastened at his groin. The dancers were ready. The bartenders were in their dirty aprons. The stage was set. The Master of Ceremonies giggled lasciviously, eying a girl called Helga. The scantily clad dancer, no more than a teenager, bounded to his side, and with the rest of the cabaret girls following suit, the show began.

The emcee's voice dripped like honey as he sang the opening act.

Fritzi breathed a sigh of relief, glad that another show was well on its way. She collapsed onto the broken sofa, feeling the unpleasant stick of what she hoped was fabric glue on the grimy cushion beneath her. Knowing the cabaret, the chances of it being glue were slim to none. There was a time when Fritzi would've wrinkled her nose in disgust, jumped away. But what did it matter now? She'd been practically a child when she'd started work at the Kit Kat Klub: innocent, arrogant, hopeful, and worst of all, a virgin. Now, everything was different. For people who worked in the club, life truly was a cabaret.

Strains of the boss's velvet voice came in and out of hearing.

"Ladies and Gentlemen! Guten abend, bon soir… Do you feel good? Ja, I bet you do…!" She knew that there he would lick his thin lips, and cast his eyes over the audience as if they were supper. Fritzi knew the act by heart. Every little detail… She'd helped to choreograph it. Whomever the director of the cabaret was, he'd never once appeared, leaving the entire performance in the bony hands of a lustful emcee and his unscrupulous assistant.

"…The international sensation, Frauline Sally--"

He never finished. Fritzi, having dozed off, was woken by shouting, and jumped to her feet. The voices seemed to be those of two men, but she couldn't hear the exact words. A chorus of thumping and breaking glass ensued. Women screamed. Fritzi, rubbed her eyes sleepily, wondering if she was dreaming. Every night the act was the same; it never changed. This didn't sound like the act. But the noises didn't stop. She realized suddenly that something was horribly wrong. She ran through the curtains and onto the stage in time to see two policemen beating a fat man with their nightsticks. A few others laughed. The policemen swore at their victim, dragging him through the door. A chorus of cheers went up. Fritzi stood awkwardly on stage in front of an audience, for the very first time. Her heart was pounding. But then the emcee laughed his strange feminine giggle.

"Well, well, meine Damen und Herren, nothing is ever the same in the cabaret! Now, introducing the international sensation, Frauline Sally Bowles!" He announced, spinning theatrically to make his exit. He glared at Fritzi, and she leapt off of the stage, running into the wings. She found the rest of the girls already in the dressing room, having left the stage through the front curtain. For once, they were silent, huddled tightly together. Helga was crying. The dressing room door flew open, slamming back against the already dented wall. No one spoke to the emcee, his painted mouth pressed into a grim line, the teasing sparkle of sexuality gone from his eyes, replaced by indignant anger. Sally began to sing from the stage.

"Schatzi…?" Fritzi murmured, slowly making her way through the crowd of nervous girls.

His hand shaking, the emcee lit a cigarette, taking a desperate drag from the end. "Nazis." His voice oozed poison, and he spat on the floor to emphasize his point. Then Friti understood. Sometimes the Nazis drank too much gin and got rowdy… Felt the need to break a Jewish nose… Or any nose they claimed to look Jewish. The police would make an appearance, and the beating would end. Fritzi bit her lip… The emcee never minded the fights, and only ever showed mild irritation at having to clean blood from the floor.

Pretty blonde Helga shyly spoke. "That's ok… The cops beat up the Nazi real good!" She swung her fist emphatically. Her wide-eyed naiveté and boundless energy nearly made Fritzi smile. But the emcee's twitching scowl ended all thoughts she had of relaxing. His hand jerked, as if he was barely restraining himself from clawing out Helga's innocent blue eyes. He spoke only the devastating words to refute her hopeful reassurance.

"They took the Jew."

Some of the dimmer girls didn't understand, but the color drained from Fritzi's face as she realized that the fat man the policemen had beaten and arrested was the Jew. And the entire club had cheered. The information seemed to sink in to Helga's childlike mind. Her eyes met Fritzi's… Judging her. Looking at her like a Jew.

Like a Jew.

Like an animal.

Like a criminal.

The child inside of her wanted to meekly call out to the girls, each glaring at her in turn. She nearly whimpered and whispered to them that she wasn't really a Jew… But such an argument would be weak and immature. She didn't owe these people anything. Fritzi narrowed her dark eyes, turning quickly on her heel. People were whispering. The Star of David felt as though it were burning, scarring her creamy flesh with its mark. It was heavier still now. With each step, it bounced against her skin with an audible 'thud.' It grew louder and louder, beating against her chest with the rhythm of her heart. She reached up abruptly to hold the pendant as she walked, hiding the rusted metal in her thin hand. She walked faster, turning a corner backstage. Once out of sight, she ran, not knowing fully why, only acting on an impulse to separate herself from the rest of the girls. Only one door backstage shut, and Fritzi hid behind it, though the stage bathroom didn't lock. Her heart rate starting to slow again, she looked at herself in the mirror. A pool of murky water had collected in the basin of the clogged sink, and she splashed her face with it, trying to wash away the anxiety in her eyes. Slowly, she sank to the floor, bracing her back against the dripping wall.

At the sound of footsteps, she nearly flinched, but upon looking up, found not a hulking antagonist, but the lanky form of the emcee, leaning curiously inside the doorframe. His face still solemn, he looked down at her, his lip curled in disgust. She shrank, hiding the Star of David inside her costume.


End file.
